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waywardsons-imagines · 8 years ago

Text

Bewitched

Writers - Admin Grace (I don’t know what to call myself other than this now, without sounding lame, so let’s just keep it like this) Characters - Dean, Sam, Reader Pairing - Sam x Reader Summary - Word Count - 2,049 (at least I think, I’m not gonna go back and recheck :D) Warnings - Angst, Sirius Situations (;D), Fluff (is that warnable? it is here! :D), Mentions of self-harm (but.. not as you may think of it as... it’s WITCHERY induced!), Mild cursing A/N - This was a WONDERFUL idea presented to the wonderful @imnoaingeal by the lovely @sarahcrystalheart as a clever little Valentine's Day idea! This was brought to me considering my love and ability to easily write Sam. ^-^

“Hey, Y/n…” Sam began gently.

Looking towards him, you exasperatedly halted your movement across the motel room and just stood there staring dully with exaggeratedly sagging shoulders.

“I don't--”

“--’think you should come with on this one’,” you interrupted. “‘Why don't you sit this one out’.”

You knew you were being a bitch about someone you loved and someone who loved you enough to protect you… but was so fun to mimic him.

You continue to stare at Sam, eyes half-lidded in exasperation - but still taking silent joy that you amused him with your over exaggerated “bossy Sam voice”.

“Please?” He asks quietly, walking over to you and taking your hand in his ginormous one, staring down at you expectantly.

You pulled up a corner of your mouth, to a lopsided disappointed expression, as your eyes peered up into his.

You wanted to protest; to join him and Dean...

But the tone of Sam’s wasn't the usual placid plea… The one where he knew you’d win in the end.

His face was somber and serious, his gaze carrying something heavier. Something you couldn't really identify.

You opened your mouth, about to ask what was bothering him, when Dean opened the door to the motel.

He hesitated slightly at the sight of the two so close together, but he shrugged it off awkwardly and made his usual joke: “Honestly, guys, keep it in your pants,” he snickered - again, as he always did. “I'm still here, and that's against the ‘What You Can and Can’t Do in Front of Dean’ guidelines.”

Sam and you let out your usual sarcastic “oh, ah-hah ah ha” response and watched as Dean made his way to his duffle. Grabbing it, he quickly glanced to Sam before he high-tailed it out of there.

Sam’s hand hadn't left yours, and now that Dean was out of the room again, it tightened and his other hand rested lightly upon your jaw, bringing your attention back to him.

“Please,” he repeats, this time emphasized.

The corners of your mouth pulled back in distaste before you finally managed to ask what was bothering him.

“You don't remember the last time you faced a witch with us?” He asks, almost bewildered - almost shocked - that you didn’t remember.

You glanced to your right, furrowing your brow as you tried to dance around what Sam was implying. You knew… but you kept... forgetting recently. On purpose? By chance? Who knew.

Sam’s patient, however, and waited as you eventually - in the span of around thirty seconds - “remembered”.

“Oh,” you breath, almost annoyed, as the memory was brought forth explicitly. Your eyes widen a bit - to sell it to Sam - and then your eyes bored into Sam’s chest (the area you were eye level with).

Your brow was furrowed and you were gnawing at your bottom lip - truly anxious now. You felt Sam’s hand move towards your chin to redirect your gaze to him again.

Sam’s eyebrows were furrowed in the worried way they always seemed to be in, and his eyes shifted from both of yours.

You clenched your jaw, not wanting to talk. Clearing your throat, you tugged yourself from Sam’s grip as gently as you could without being rude.

“Be safe, yeah?” You forced out, going to your duffle. You were gonna get dressed in your long untouched pajamas and fall asleep to a telenovela or something… you needed to think about something else.

“‘ey,” Sam replied, grabbing for your hand quickly, pulling you back in his direction. You looked up at him, but couldn't look directly into his eyes. You looked over his right ear - close enough to seem like you were looking at his face.

“Look,” Sam continued softly, letting go of you once he was sure you wouldn't leave your spot. “I'm sorry I had to bring it up, but you understand why I want you to stay here…?”

You shook your head vigorously, looking to your feet like a chastised child. “No, no… I know,” you stammer, suddenly feeling tinier than you already were (at least compared to Sam). “Just… be safe.”

You and Sam hug briefly, and he's off.

Sighing, you sit on your bed; feeling sapped - and sad now.

You hated witches... Possibly even more than Dean did, and that's saying something - isn’t it?

It must've been hours… because it felt like a full day until you heard the distinct rumble of the Impala’s engine.

You could practically feel the relief flooding your veins, your blood cooling almost. But, at the same time, you knew to prepare yourself for at least some blood…

You heard one car door creak open loudly and slam just the same, and this left you wondering where the second creak and slam of the passenger door went… they were usually in tandem…

After overhearing Dean’s heavy footsteps upon the gravel of the motel parking lot, you relaxed when you finally heard it.

Rrrk! Crrk! Slam!

You didn't know what to expect after this hunt. You especially didn't expect to find Dean leading a large - beautiful - dog into the room by the scruff of its neck…

“What the he-…” you trail off, looking at the dog then up at Dean, confused.

You were even more confused when Dean shut the door behind him and locked it.

The question of where Sam was was on the tip of your tongue, but at Dean’s sarcastic half-smile and aggravated, “Yea. I know.” - you stayed quiet.

Dean let go of the scruff of the dog and immediately the canine let out a distressed yelp, pacing back and forth before coming up to you, rutting his head against your bladder - basically. Grunting, and severely confused, you try to ward off the large dog as you pestered Dean, looking for the answers you felt you deserved.

“Y/n!” Dean snaps, looking up from his highly frustrated position, on the foot of his bed, having his head in his hand. “Stop! Just stop-!... Askin’...”

Dean’s voice had lost its edge by the last word, when he saw the face you made at his raised voice - one of further confusion and slight hurt.

At another yelp, and slight growl, of the dog below you, Dean snapped - this time saying words you didn't expect to hear: “Shut up, Sammy! I didn't mean to yell.”

You looked wide-eyed from Dean to the large Husky-type dog in front of you.

You knelt down swiftly, cupping the face of the creature before you, and your jaw hit the floor.

The dog had the most unnaturally hazel eyes for a Husky.

“Sam?” You exclaim shrilly, causing Dean to wince and Sam’s(??) ears laid flat against his head as he whined slightly.

“What the fuck happened, Dean?” You roared, standing straight abruptly, your fists clenched.

Sam began barking small boofs, pacing between the two of you - surely trying to disengage you from doing anything rash.

“Don't blame me, honey, blame the hags that we came here to gank!” Dean roared back with no hesitance, obviously very agitated that Sam was a dog.

Dean stood and shook his head, pinching the bridge of his nose. “I'm callin’ Bobby,” he announced gruffly. “Outside. You two wait here.”

You sat at the foot of your bed - as your body suddenly had become too heavy for your wobbly legs to carry - as you stared at the dusty patterns on the outdated carpet.

Sam - should you even call him that? - kept pacing around, stumbling every few steps before he finally went straight forward to you and butted his head against the hands hanging from your forearms’ place on your knees.

This startled you somehow and your arms jolted, accidentally causing you to swat Sam’s snoot.

At his soft yelp, you let out a weird, pathetic and guilty cry. “Shit!” You hissed, startled. “I'm so sorry, Sam, I -- shit…”

You had grabbed the large amount of fur around his face, and your other hand went to clear the hair from your face.

You felt scattered. You couldn't get a grip on your thoughts or your actions, so - there you were; acting like an absolutely scatter-brained idiot… an idiot in the face of something potentially very fucking bad.

Shaking your head clear, you moved your body to where Sam was between your legs and you brought him closer so that you could embrace his large - practically vibrating - body.

You settled your cheek against the broad skull of the Husky, and took comfort in his breathing.

He was okay. He was fine. He wasn't hurt, per se…

Take comfort in that, you thought to yourself as you wept.

You again felt guilty. Just sitting there, staining Sam’s fur with your tears, but - dammit - you couldn't help it. What if he stayed like this??

You suddenly felt Sam’s head wrestle with your hold gently just before a warm wetness lapped at your exposed forearms - you had shoved the long sleeves of your pajama shirt up just a minute earlier.

You looked down, sniffling pathetically as you watched the dog lick your multiple scars - your evidence of your past struggle with witches, actually.

It had been a year or two since the incident. You and the boys had been hunting down the source for multiple “suicides” in a town. The witch’s only fault? Choosing the wrong people.

It started as a mild itching - you hadn't even noticed it under your FBI blazer… you thought you were having a reaction to your blouse…

It was when an elderly grandmother of one of the victims drew your attention to it that you noticed your arms were bleeding quite profusely.

When you had lifted your sleeves in the privacy of her bathroom you saw that there was nothing there causing the bleeding. This had perplexed you, but you decided not to mention it… at all. To anyone.

You had changed your blouse before either Winchester saw you, and you all went on to finish the case - as you always did.

It was the fifth night of being in the town when you had woken up in the middle of the night and went into the bathroom you shared with the Winchesters seeking to scratch an itch that was slowly driving you insane - with your knife in hand.

You had woken up to blood-stained… everything… and Sam legitimately scooping you into his arms, screaming at Dean to “get into the car!!”

You hardly noticed the scars now… but there were moments… low moments - when you felt the weight of the knife against your skin and wondered how…

How it would feel again.

Those were usually the days you wore long sleeves and listened only to The Bangles - seeing as you smuggled those tapes onto Dean's collection (he didn't mind apparently).

Seeing Sam… just… lickin’ something so... crucial to you… while in the most ridiculously adorable skin of something potentially horrible and unchangeable?

Suddenly, this seemed so much more funnier.

Sam - the adorable bastard - had his tail wagging as you laughed softly, wiping your tears with the sleeve of your thermal shirt like a small, naïve, sniffling child.

See? He was saying. I understand. It can happen to anyone.

Damn him, you thought with another tearful laugh.

Damn him for knowing one of the main reasons you beat yourself up about the scars was your lack of caution that hunt.

You were stroking the satin fur of his forehead gently, causing the hazel eyes to slide shut and his tongue loll out in - you didn't know what.

“Gross,” you murmured endearingly, smiling a watery smile at the dog sitting before you.

Suddenly the door opened abruptly, revealing a much calmer Dean.

“Okay,” he began quietly.

“I'm gonna need your help, Y/n…” he said hesitantly, his eyes jumping from you, to Sam, and back.

You hadn't taken your eyes off Sam, but when you finally did - you felt stronger somehow.

“I don't think I can deal with bestiality, Dean,” you joked softly, but with resolve. “So, just tell me what I can do.”

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